Disciples of the Word:Faith in Chaos
by exitus10
Summary: The vast Epistles of Lorgar is said to hold the destiny of every single Word Bearer in existence. Warrior-Bother Arkhor of the Disciples had been chosen by Lorgar himself and now has been shown the way to his destiny. To be the Coryphaus.
1. Prologue

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**Prologue : Heeding the Word  
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_From those that would not heed we offer praise to those who do, that they might turn their gaze our way and gift us with the boon of pain, to turn the galaxy red with blood, and feed the Hunger of the Gods!_

**-Excerpt from the forty-first Book of the Epistles of Lorgar**

** Strike Cruiser, Infernus.**

**In Orbit above the Dark Mechanicum Forge-World Ghalmek, Maelstrom.  
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Arkhor closed his eyes as his battle helm was unsealed from his suit and was gently detached from his head, nauseous air of filtered oxygen escaped from the many vents within the helm as it rose from his head. He took a great gulp of incense filled air, relishing its sweet taste in his mouth. Slowly opening his eyes, the servitors came into vision steadily unscrewing bolts and unwiring tangled connections and gently removing the various parts of his sacred and holy power armour, its gore red shone with the reflections from the braziers about the chamber as the black writing inscribed on his left shoulder guard was carefully cleaned and the pad removed.

A hiss of pressure emanated from his breastplate as the vents were released and the armour depressurized, the clamps on the lone chirumek unfastened the plate and finally his armour was disassembled all about him the pieces of the sacred gear of a warrior-brother was wrapped in black cloth covered in scriptures of gold. He reverently held his stormbolter in his hand and whispered a little prayer as he unclipped the box magazine and held it to a nearby servitor; it received it with a bow and set about restocking its ammunition. . Setting the stormbolter aside in a black box, he began to unfasten the power-fist covering his left arm. Arkhor hissed in pain as it was removed, his war gear and him were fusing, a good sign. He painstakingly set is aside and was immediately carried away by a servitor.

He sighed in relief as the last of the servitors left him alone; he walked to the store room beside the shelves of sacred texts and retrieved a gore red robe from the store, he donned it in his body which significantly enhanced the massive musculature of his body, giving a particular emphasis on the Astartes broadness. Walking toward a small dais in the other corner of the room a chant issued from Arkhor's mouth. He retrieved a book from the shelf entitled Book of Erebus and held it in both his hands, he looked at it and kissed the book, proceeding toward the dais, he suddenly stopped chanting and called out "Prayer!" as if he was communing with the room, immediately the chamber doors locked themselves and the brazier lights darkened, blood candles hidden around the room caught alight as their red light lit the chamber.

Kneeling in front of the dais, he looked at the idols representing the four powers. There was the Warrior God Khorne, sitting on a throne of Skulls surrounded by a sea of blood. Then there was bloated and obese Nurgle the Grandfather, covered in sores and puss flies all about him. Slannesh the Lord of Pleasure, he was represented as a hermaphrodite being surrounded by beauty. Then came the terrible Lord of Change, a great hooded being with many arms and as many eyes on each arm, from his fingers extended myriad threads, indicating Tzeentch's power to manipulate and change, yet his face itself revealed was that of hope.

A golden box lay in front if the dais unravelled from a gore red cloth which sat beneath it. Arkhor's hand strayed over and unlocked the box, he retrieved the contents from the box. A knife with a skin sheet covering the weapon. He unwrapped the skin to find blood engraved writing upon it in the holy dark tongue of the daemons, he scanned over it quickly to ensure what he was told and read was the same. His vision then leapt to the knife, not just any knife. It was the Bone-Knife of Colchis, the first weapon used by the Blessed Daemon Primarch Lorgar, who himself had presented him with the knife and the mission. Varus….the bastard was his target. The last words of Rhobal the Eternal echoed in his mind at the thought of the traitor's name. Rhobal, his tutor and mentor. His closest Warrior-Brother, Honour-Brother and his murder at the hands of the bastard usurper Varus. He clenched his teeth as the memories flooded back, he swore he would see to the end of all who had crossed him and his comrades at Calth, and this was his stepping stone to blessed vengeance. Varus was now a traitor in the Blessed Lorgar's all Seeing Eye. Once again calm settled at the Lord's name.

Arkhor closed his eyes in prayer; the task asked of him was the greatest sin amongst the myriad hosts of Word Bearers. He was to slay a Dark Apostle. Dark Apostle Varus.

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**Author's Note:**Word Bearer fans rejoice, I have finally made the first piece of WB fanfic on this website and damn proud of it! hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it and thanks for reading :) BTW thanks to TLH for supporting me. Cheers mate!

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	2. Chapter 1 : The Sacred Task

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**Chapter 1: The Sacred Task**  
_"Have faith and shed the blood of the enemy in the name of the Gods and you will see the blessings upon you!"  
-Excerpt from the Fourth Scroll of Lorgar._

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The Strike Cruiser _Infernus_ gently drifted amongst the orbital docks, finding its true docking station the ship began to make manoeuvres slowly in the madness of the space that was the Maelstrom. The maelstrom was a massive rift in real space where the warp space poured out in the form of a massive storm, no one knows how or when it had appeared but it had always been a scar in the north eastern part of the galaxy, once a haven for pirates and low lives. But now it is infested by the insidious followers of Chaos, prime amongst them were the Sons of Lorgar.

Arkhor looked on from the bridge as the Infernus began to clamp onto the docking bay, he clenched his ceramite encased fist in anticipation as he stared at the massive dark red-orb that was Ghalmek, massive spires spewing filth and corruption into the air had covered the surface with a brooding black hue. Blood mixed with ashes was the image which formed in Arkhor's mind. A sudden thought of blood sent him back ages past, when the glorious rebellion under Horus spread its wings and the False Emperor's worlds burned with the fury of the Dark Gods, back when all the Lords of the Legions walked the stars, the name of Rhobal echoed in his thoughts.

"Lord, the Thunderhawks are ready." monotone voice of a nearby servitor-thing droned.

He turned to his guards who stood in the shadows, "Summon my Zealots, we are to depart for the surface."

"By, Lorgar!" bowed one of the guards as he proceeded from the bridge.

This was to be his finest hour, once this task was complete he would single-handedly set in motion the works of Lorgar, once again the Legion would be purged of the self serving whoresons who had taken much of the legion into degradation. Like him a thousand other Disciple Brothers were throughout the stars culling those Dark Apostles and Warmasters who has failed Lorgar and in turn the Chaos Gods agenda in this wretched Galaxy, only then can the Legion of Lorgar return to the path of the Sacred Word.

Arkhor shook of the thought and proceeded from the bridge, his Guards followed suite, he turned around taking one last look at the silhouette of the sacred Forge-World. The task he was about commit would fortify his position within the Legion of Lorgar.

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"You may enter, Sons of Lorgar!" the Dreadnought's deep voice resonated across the room.

Five warriors in gore-red robes with the Latros Sacrum emblazoned across their chests, stepped forward from the great stairs, enormous Iron Doors of the Black Cathedral swung open as the mists of incense crept from the dark innards of the sacred place. The warriors-brothers stepped through the arching doorway their footsteps calculated and full of purpose, the strode through the honour guard who lined the corridor walls in full power armour, the entering warriors bore a seal on their arms, a book with flames over its pages within the flame was a dark palm all superimposed over a star of chaos. It was the mark called the Hand of Lorgar; they were the Chosen of Erebus himself, recognizing this, the warrior-brothers snapped to attention and saluted the figures.

The great expanse of the Cathedral was unleashed as the sanctum doors were swung open to the robed Word Bearers, black chants in the daemon tongues echoed through the hall. There were scarce few warrior-brothers of the Legion scattered around the hall as the daily mass had finished hours ago and the next mass was due a few hours later when the guard changed. Far off in the opposite direction there was the raised dais and an Altar of worship a warrior-brother in black robes of a priest was seen performing ritual rites and benediction by a small blood sacrifice.

The warrior-brothers in the robes advanced onto the altar taking in the large expanse of the cathedral and the great hall of the place. Massive walls ornate with the silver writing of Holy Lorgar which constantly writhed and changed, above them was a massive dome of the Gods, brass writings and daemon statues covered the trench. Toward the bottom of the dome dark scripture from the Sacred Epistles swarmed the curvature, great hooks hung freely in the air without any notable attachments, bodies of fresh victims from the slave pits were skewered onto the hooks, red blood dripped down to form tiny rivulets on the floor, it flowed freely toward the altar and in an arcane fashion flowed up the raised dais into a deep and gouged scar on the altar which collided to form of the star of chaos filled with blood.

The priest was ending the prayer and offered the heart of a victim from the silver plate beside him. He instinctively rose from his knees and turned around. He was a tall bald headed man black writings covered his head; his face was a noble and aquiline in feature like his Daemon Primarch's before his ascension, a great scar ran across his face from his temple to his cheek. He frowned at the new arrivals

"By the will of the Dark Gods." He welcomed the new-comers with a low bow.

"And may the blessings of Lorgar be with you, Black Priest Urius!" came the booming voice of the hooded figure in lead of the group.  
Urius raised his eyebrows "May I ask of your business here, honoured warrior-brother?"

The Word Bearer indicated to his coterie who as one removed their hoods, five ancient and scarred faces were revealed. Instantly a expression of shock and recognition crossed his ancient mind, yet his demeanour remained calm and collected, what would the Chosen of Erebus want with him?

Erebus was the first Dark Apostle within the Legion of Lorgar; he was at the forefront of almost all major holy wars against the cursed Imperium of the False Emperor. His chosen were the best of thousands from within the Legion and usually when they approach a Word Bearer, Erebus or the Primarch himself had his eye on some grave matter within the Legion.

"I am the Chosen Warrior-Brother Kolar Arkhor of the First Host of Erebus. These are my Coterie's Aspirant...Zealots ."  
The four other robed Word Bearers bowed their heads, in turn. They each stepped forth and introduced themselves.

"I am Khanor of the First Squad." Said the warrior on Arkhor's left, his face was a mess of scars and ragged short hair erupted from his head, he had a bionic unblinking red right eye, which focused on the priest.

"I am named Imrak of the Second." Replied the warrior to his right, he had small horns which covered his bald head.

"Rakhon of the Third." bowed the burliest of the lot behind him, he had black skin and a prominent jaw, which was clean shaven and his head bald except for a topknot crested at the top of his skull, great nodes erupted from his temples and his neck

"Arakh of the fourth, honoured priest." said the fourth and the youngest looking one, but a dark power swarmed beneath his fixed gaze, like that of a possessed warrior.

"Welcome to the Black Cathedral of Kor Phaeron the Honoured, warrior-brothers." He said as he splayed his hands indicating to the cathedral.

"What is it that you seek?"

"We have travelled from Holy Sicarus as ordered by the Shadow Council of Lorgar." Arkhor replied retrieving a parchment of flesh inscribed seal and a small bone-knife the easily the size of a normal man's forearm.

"We were tasked to find, Dark Apostle Varus the Destroyer." A faint sign of annoyance appeared on his face "But now it seems he is grievously injured in battle against the savage xenos...the Tau is it? On the cursed planet, Krnoth."

"And it seems that his apprentice…the First Acolyte is within your care. Is it not as said?" broke in the swarthy skinned Rakhon.

The Black Priest had a worried look on his face as he read the message on the skin parchment, his aquiline face was twisted in suspicion, he walked down the dais the skin parchment in one hand and the bony-knife in the other hand, he lent down toward Arkhor form the dais,

"We must talk in private Chosen of Erebus." Arkhor nodded.

Within a few moments they were in the Priests Chamber, it was a small spartan room, the shelves were stocked with holy writings, the Books of Lorgar, the Scrolls of Erebus, the Epistles of Kor Phaeron and the Tomes of Magnus and Ahriman among many other black texts of holy significance. The table was sprawled with writings and massive tomes, a single chair occupied the claustrophobic room. The four Champions stood silent and unmoving at the entrance of the chamber while Arkhor and Urius stood at the centre of the room face to face. The priest was frowning at the mere notion of the statements he had just read.

"What you say is…nothing short of treachery! Why would our own Lord want a Dark Apostle…chosen of Lorgar to…just die? It is just…unbelievable." He fumed

"You dare question our lord Daemon Primarch Lorgar's command?" asked an amused Arkhor

"No, Brother Arkhor, it is not that. This is unprecedented; if he dies…the Host will be…"

"The Host is to be given a new stewardship, Black Priest." He said anticipating the priests thought. Urius raised his eyebrow at the statement, "Who is to inherit the Host of my Lord?"

"The First Acolyte, of course." Arkhor walked over to the Priest and put a hand on his shoulder, "Do not be alarmed Brother you have served your lord well and your Host has honoured the Gods by erecting the Dark Temple on Krnoth." Urius still seemed unconvinced of their past successes. "Urius. The host will be intact."

A sign of relief flooded the priest's face, "Praise the Gods with a thousand souls!" he prayed. "So what am I to do?"

"Summon the Coryphaus of the Host and the First Acolyte." He smiled at the Priest. "And show me the Dark Apostle death-bed, so I may end his life." he asked as he took the bone-knife reverently from Urius's hand. "My brothers will accompany you in summoning the senior War-Captains." He indicated to the four Astartes standing by the door, a dozen more figures wielding arcane red and black Stormbolters with daemon maw barrels appeared beside them. Urius simply nodded his acknowledgment and proceeded to carry out His command.

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The Dark Apostle was in a critical condition, pipes and wires erupted from his body as chirurgeons swarmed around him trying to patch the grievous wounds suffered on Halorn as he lay on a slab of metal. Arkhor looked at him through the plasflex glass of the observation room as the Dark Apostle began to heal, hate and anger welled in his eyes at the sight of the great Dark Apostle Varus now a withered heap of meat and bone. He hated nought for his power or position, rather how he had gained it, all those centuries ago, the betrayal of his coterie on Calth, the traitorous whoreson had abandoned him and survivors of his squad under fire. The feelings long gone welled up in him once more like a raging storm. Varus, he thought to himself, I swore by Rhobal's Oath that you will die by my hands. By the gods that will soon come to fruition!

Three pairs of Honour Guards in silver and black helms outside led by a Aspiring Champion with an ornate blade at his side and a monstrous plasma gun in hand, they let none but the most important and high of the Legion pass through the doors the Disciple was neither, but Arkhor was determined to get past them and he would not be denied. The Disciple stepped forth to the door, bolters crossed his path.

"You may not enter, Warrior-Brother!" the Champion growled.

"I do not need your permission for that Brother. For I am tasked by the will of Lorgar." said Arkhor in a calm demeanour. "I must enter and look to my duty."

"You have no authority here….Disciple of Chaos."

"Alas, about authority," he laughed ", and it is by whose decree you seek to bar me from my Lord Lorgar given task?"

"None are bar you from thine duty brother, but it is rather the decree of the Lord Apostle that none may enter except the chosen few."

"Then I must convince you to let me in?"

"You may have to procure the silver tongue of Erebus, Disciple of the Word!"

"I don't believe I need to. Brother." he looked about at the guards and the cover around the wide corridor, he folded his arms and watched them from his hood for a moment.

The Champion sensing danger charged his weapon, his men cocked their bolters. In a sudden blur of motion Arkhor pulled out two stormbolters in each hand both raking the bodies of the surprised Word Bearer guards in an arc, the remaining guards returned fire, the skilled Disciple ducked and rolled as bolter shells tore at his robe as it fluttered about. The bolt shells ricocheted of the walls ripping into servitors and equipment scattered about the place, one more guard fell as Arkhor unleashed the salvo onto the door, another guard rushed toward him, a chain axe in his hand. The Disciple leapt onto an equipment train which was passing by, using it as a platform he leapt onto last of the charging Word Bearer firing his weapons, the chest of the warrior became a ruin of blood and ceramite. The Dark Apostle within the medicae chamber was suddenly lacking his honour guard.

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First Acolyte Ghuldar knelt in utter concentration and prayer communing with the powers of the warp on the failures that had come to the ruin of the Host. Ever since the Dark Apostle's injury and the Host's return to Ghalmek, he had been plagued by visions of death and vengeance, not of himself but of another, the one in his dreams who will grant him power. The one, the same one, who will destroy the only cursed barrier to his ascension, to that of a…A Dark Apostle.

The doors of his arcane meditation chamber growled and snarled as the daemon essence sensed someone approach it, the First Acolyte's eye shot open at the disturbance, he was in full power armour, deep gore red of his legion shone as if fresh out of the forge, it was remarkably restored from the damages he had sustained during fighting the xenos upon Krnoth, and due to the efforts of the chirumeks of the forge world it was fully refurbished. He stood up and touched the chaos star on his breastplate and intoned a benediction on his armour. He turned and exited the chamber.

Outside were four massive figures in gore red robes they were of the huge Astartes build and the robes only added to their immense figure.  
"First Acolyte Ghuldar!" bowed the priest as he approached from behind them. "May the Dark Gods bless thee!"

"Gods watch over us, Urius." he growled, still disturbed by the visions, he raised his eyebrows looking at the new comers. "Who are these blessed warrior-brothers?"

"These, my lord are the Chosen of Erebus!" he said with anxiousness "Lord Lorgar, himself has tasked them here to Ghalmek."  
Ghuldar looked astonished at the statement. Had Lorgar seen the dissension in his mind? Where they here to destroy him for the failures at Krnoth? These thoughts immediately flooded from him as the hooded figures bowed to him and revealed their faces.

"Honoured, apprentice of the Dark Apostle. We are to gather you and the Coryphaus along with the War-Captains of the Host." Said the warrior-brother with the bionic eye.

"Are we to be punished for the failures?" he inquired, a worried thought surfacing in his mind.

"No, it is of a deeper matter. It is of your Ascension." The Word Bearer stated.

"What Ascension?" Ghuldar looked puzzled

"Your Ascension to that of full Dark Apostle, your current master is….passing."

"The Dark Apostle still lives, the thought of his death are…heresy at its highest!"

"He may live for now." The Word Bearer snarled. "But not for long." A thin smile creased his face.

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Arkhor opened the massive doors to the room in which the Dark Apostle lay, the chirurgeons immediately parted ways and began exiting the room at his order. The Chosen looked at the limp body of the Dark Apostle, the spiritual and high leader of his Host. All those centuries ago his betrayal had cost him his mentor, Rhobal, and many of his closest Warrior-Brothers at the hands of the hated Sons of Guilliman, the thought bought bile to his mouth, he hated everything about the Ultramarines, their thinking that they were better than other Legions had driven the Word Bearers to lash out at them during the Horus Heresy. The same anger was felt toward the crippled leader of the Host, he stepped next to his body and snarled his fangs in anger, he remembered what he had been told. Told, by the Primarch himself in confidence. The plans of the traitor were, to ally with the hated Alpha Legion and betray his master.

_"Do not let the vermin live! Kill him! He has denied me my Will over all who bear my sacred gene-sons. He is no longer a Word Bearer, let alone a Dark Apostle of my vast Hosts. He is a liability, no longer is he on of the Chosen. He has forsaken his task at hand. The fool has let the Orb slip!"  
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_"Arkhor! I charge you with being my harbinger; take this knife, the Bone-knife of Colchis and cut out his heart and harvest his gene-seed! Find the Acolyte and assist him retrieving the Orb of Gelmash. Return to me what is mine and I will give you what you desire my favoured son! Go now! With haste!"_

With the holy words of his primogenitor in his mind Arkhor ripped the tubes out of the body of the enemy, vital fluids and protein and morthenic laced ichors dripped and sputtered out of the appendages. Blood and gore wept from his exposed wounds in thick rivers, with the litany of vengeance in his lip like a hideous mantra he plunged the sacred knife into the traitor's exposed flesh on his chest and through the weakened bone armour of his chest, the Apostle awakened from the sharp pain, he screamed in agony as the knife plunged in repeatedly, shattering and tearing his chest apart. He proceeded to follow as he was commanded, he ripped the diseased porous, pulpy and black heart of the enemy, the secondary heart began pumping faster to replace the natural heart, and Arkhor plunged the knife into the beating synthetic flesh stopping it.

He placed the still beating diseased primary heart into a pouch near his belt, he reached in to the carcass of the thrashing enemy and retrieved the egg shaped Gene-Seed of the Word Bearers Legion it was covered with gore and small nodes and cancerous growth which peeled of as it left its master. The body suddenly stopped thrashing and died as sudden as the assailant's strike. Arkhor smiled as he retrieved a cryo-vat box from the table beside him and placed the holy gene seed within it. He tapped into his vox bead.

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"Brothers, the deed is done. Now for the Ascension and to fulfil the Will of our lord Primarch, as it was written!"

His ear vox bead crackled _"As it was written!"_ came the reply.

"Tell the First Acolyte to summon the host, we must depart at once and reclaim our lord's revered Orb." A sudden report from Brother Khanor came through fraught with bolter fire in the background.

_"Disciple Brother Arkhor, the Coryphaus…he's gone!"_

"Gone? Report status of yourself and the coterie?"

_"We were caught out…by the chosen Anointed of the Coryphaus. We have managed to neutralize them. No casualties."_

"But the Coryphaus, he escaped?"

_"Yes, Brother. He seeks to found a splinter from the Host. He and his most loyal have fled to the orbit, they are trying to jump away."_

"What is their disposition? Numbers?"

_"At least two companies, Disciple Brother. They are heading to the fourth quadrant docks, they will probably use their barge **The Unyielding Darkness**."_

"Gods damn him!" Arkhor had expected dissent, but never to this scale, "Send a warning to the _Infernus_ of the situation and prepare our Warrior-Brothers. They shall draw blood of the forsaken!"

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**You like it? Then review it. That's all i gotta say. This is linked to the EC:DB saga and there will be references to Battlegrounds saga as well bringing the alternates together.**

**Either way my most heart-felt and most worked on piece ever!**

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	3. Chapter 2 : The Sacred Purge

_Through the Darkness of the Warp-Gods we gain enlightenment. Through bloody conflict we gain vengeance. Through sacrifice and prayer we gain favours of the Gods. But through great actions it is that we gain Immortality!_

_-Excerpt from the Forty Seventh Chapter of the Black Annals of Kor Phaeron._

**Ghalmek Orbital Forge-Dock- **_**Armorum Malefica: **_

**On the Bridge of the Battle-Barge **_**The Unyielding Darkness**_

Coryphaus Moran Lakhos looked out from the view port and watched on in anger at what he perceived through his threatening and frustrated eyes, the red orbs shot back and forth between the view screen and the report manifest which scrolled on in the console port screen. A small battle group of Carrier ships and Battle-Cruisers approached the docked Battle-Barge _The Unyielding Darkness_ from afar, still out of firing range, spewing small streaks of black and red from within the ships' hulls and began to amass them to the fore. It was a boarding swarm.

The Coryphaus knew that he was nothing more than an open target, the refuelling was incomplete and the warp-core was spent and the replacement was yet being corrupted by those few loyal chirumeks with all haste. Time, which was all he needed, was running short. He had with him two-hundred and fifty warrior-brothers who were still loyal to him, of it fifty of them were his heavy Terminator armoured Anointed who still remained loyal. He still reeled from the news that almost four-fifths of his Terminator armoured Anointed decided to switch sides and he was only left with a handful of loyalists.

Coryphaus Lakhos hoped they were enough to repel any boarding attacks. But yet what he feared most was the inovolvment of the Disciples of the Word. He had heard their exploits, he had heard of their piety and the power they hold in the name of the Dark Creed, of how only one hundred heavily armed Disciples had slain the False Emperor's loyal Steel-Fist Chapter Space Marines in their companies and had in a final terrible effort completely and utterly destroyed the Chapter on Angolan IV. But all those epic tales were but nought now, he had to counter-them…somehow. He had a plan, and he prayed fervently to Tzeentch, Master of Fates, that his ploy would work.

His giant form turned as a terrible growl emanated from his altered throat, swinging his massive arm about the Coryphaus shattered a nearby console port into pieces with the thrumming lightning claw which enveloped the warlords left arm.

Frustration and anger welled up inside him; the only option was to escape as soon as he could. He hated the option, retreating, in front of the enemy and had only ever done it twice, once at the Blood-Fields of Morkaj against the massive horde of Orks before they were purged by Orbital fire and other at the Gates of the Terra itself when the first Warmaster, Horus the Blessed had fallen at the hands of the False-Emperor. Lakhos clenched his teeth at the thought of the snivelling Corpse-Emperor and cursed his name thrice in the daemon tongue.

For hours now he had been drawing up a plan of action, the first thing was to deal as much damage as possible to the Host and their allies and enact a withdrawal, God's willing, and head toward the Gauri System where he may still be able to muster a sizeable force of local Word Bearer garrisons who held the region under the banner of his old friend and Bond-Brother Warlord Thakash and take on the imposter host of Lorgar for good.

The upstart bastard whore-son Arkhor or whatever his name was, had single-handedly managed to bring ruin to the 4th Host of the Black Cardinal Kor Phaeron, the venerable Dark Apostle was murdered, War-Captain Orakis, the leader of the honour guard and his closest confidant, was dead and worst of all the Black-Priest Urius had let his loyalties slip and had sided with the bastard Disciples. But the betrayal of the traitorous whore-son whelp of a First Acolyte and his cadre astounded him more so, and he had swayed the majority of the host to his banner. The nerve of those usurpers!

They would soon meet the wrath of the Coryphaus!

Arkhor chanted the Darkness of the Will through the inter-vox in a monotonous but reverential voice, belying that of his authority. The calm noise resonated and distorted through the vox line into a malicious daemon cry, instilling all the faithful with dark-obedience to the will of the Dark Gods and their enemies with a confusing miasma of sounds and distortions.

Normally its potency was just below lethal to those who were warp-trained or Null-Willed. But to true mortals it would be a thing of terror.

Within the maelstrom, however, which oozed with the essence of the warp this chant was amplified in power a thousand fold drawing dark currents of the warp which coursed through the realm of utter and unspeakable insanity and limitless energy of a trillion trillion souls.

The Disciple smiled as he felt his own venerations to the Dark Gods grow from a slow monotonous chant to a raging whirl of insane chattering and thunderous verses, through the eternal currents, he heard the death-throes of those mortals who served as broken slaves aboard the enemy Battle-Barge, he sensed with his prodigious mind the melting minds of a thousand menials and the death throes of the faithful who willingly gave their souls for the great powers.

The massive pod began shuddering once the storm of tempest began flaring before the Word Bearer force and _The Unyielding Darkness_; the force began to move forth to execute the purge of the unbelieving scum. A screen of turbo-las and torpedoes, screamed from the hull of the behemoth ship, daemon infused war-spirits picking their targets heading for their eventual demise and rebirth in the ocean of souls.

But it was blunted; the counter-attack by the giant ship was thwarted by the unstoppable storm of pure faith which was born of the power that coursed through ever single warrior-brother and daemon infused machine on the true side. The missiles and torpedoes exploded or stopped harmlessly and prematurely and the laser fire which continued to ripple across from the hull simply vanished into the storm to be added to its fury.

The unstoppable force trailed ahead to face a new threat, a swarm of flying ships which shot from the hull-decks, yet again the storm reached it's crescendo as the enemy approached it, forks of unnatural lightening erupted from the transparent purple storm and struck at the formation. It knocked about ships and disintegrated the rest into burning wrecks as dozens more filed from the decks.

This only enraged the telepathic storm further as a hundred forks of immense purple lightening rods shot from the storm and began overwhelming the shields, the power of the warp finally broke through the void-shield and began its massive assault once more, it burnt and seared into the fast approaching hull, the mouth which yet excreted the enemy was sealed shut as a immense rod of power shot out and melted the ceramite-plasteel alloy shutters close.

Bulbous explosions of blue and red rippled across the tiers of the ship as the approaching force of Battle cruisers opened fire and the Intruder Pods raced toward weak breaches in the ships formidable hull. Within a space of a few minutes the storm abated and the Battle-Barges, outer hull defences were all but broken. A Thousand warrior-brothers and a hundred Acolytes of the Word under the Disciple Arkhor broke into the barge's formidable interior. The purging soon followed.

**Ghalmek Orbital Forge-Dock- **_**Armorum Malefica: **_

**Aboard the Battle-Barge **_**The Unyielding Darkness**_

Bolter shots rang of the ceramite walls as sheets of flame and plasma erupted from the ruptured pipelines running overhead, boiling bilious plasma poured out in a thick sheet like form as it leaked onto the deck grating and engulfed and melted couple of Chaos Marines and a group of cultist defenders who had revoked their loyalty to their true Lord and Master, Daemon-Primarch Lorgar. The Traitors were dying in droves all across the ships and the splinter host was being pushed back slowly.

Arkhor flexed his power-fist as he cocked his arm back as he prepared to break a sealed door, in a flash of anger and prodigious strength gifted to him by the Gods and his progenitor's seed and holy weapons, he sheared the fist through the reinforced ceramite door like a las shot through paper. Thick smoke and fires rippled across the frame of the doorway and a press of bodies lay about the entrance of the door. Menials, they had all been slain by the kinetic force of the punch as they braced against the door. The Disciple smiled at the thought of their suffering, and he growled at how they were released of a burden, the burden of life and service.

"Disciple Arkhor." came a stern voice in his ear bead "We have cleared the prayer rooms and flushed them from the armoury."

Arkhor smiled behind the war-helm he wore. "Good, proceed as planned. Onto the Bridge faithful of Lorgar!"

A chorus of dark curses and black names were called in answer to his orders, content he stepped into the hallway to only see another long corridor in front of him. It was packed with heavily armed cultists of the Word…traitors all. Once more his cruel patrician face behind the great red war-helm twisted into that of a contemptuous sneer to all those who opposed the true faith. He signalled to the men beside him to continue and they began jogging down the long corridor, firing their bolters en masse or simply hacking through all that stood in their way chain-axe or power-blade, as the warrior-brothers continued, Arkhor slowly walked forward followed by four other Neophytes. The new-blood.

"Neophyte Zenar, what do you think is the easiest way to our…enlightenment?" he asked in a deep and reasonable voice throwing his power-fist encased hand about the room. As if he cared about all things around him, even though they were mostly dead and maimed.

A neophyte with crimson power-armour daubed in holy writings came forward in step with Arkhor and held his head low before he spoke, "There is no easy path, lord. There is no quickness or shortcuts in our path for we trod one filled with perils and dangers, but through the faith in the Gods and prayer to them and the proper veneration of out Lord Lorgar we may overcome such…inconveniences and prevail."

"What inconveniences are those, my dear Zenar? Eldar scum? Xenos scum? The weakling so called: 'Emperor of Man'?"

The Neophytes slightly cringed at the mention of the name of the Imperium's ruler, "No, my lord." growled the disturbed neophyte, "It is one's own doubts and inefficiencies that are the most prevalent in most of a faithful one's undoing. Those are the inconveniences we must first destroy."

"Excellent!" Arkhor said with a gleeful voice. "Like our venerated Lord Erebus said: 'It is not through the sacrifice of a thousand souls that one is chosen to be a warrior of the Dark Creed. It is through defeating one-self doubts and mistakes could one become a true warrior of the gods. Only once he has slain his own fear and doubts, the gnawing sense of the fragility within, would one become a Bearer of the Word, with that in mind will one slay not a thousand…but millions!'…truer words were never more spoken."

He turned to look at the neophytes; Zenar took a step back head bowed to the rank of his comrades. "I have concluded you all to be worthy of the title of Acolyte of the Word…but for now go prove our worth on the field. Anointed of the Word await reinforcements in the dark chapel in the upper tiers, go with all haste!"

The newly incepted Acolytes bowed and jogged of the opposite direction toward the maintenance lift. Arkhor slowly followed the path his other Acolytes had taken down the dank heat and flesh infested corridor, relishing the fact that slowly but surely this giant of a ship will fall against such a wrath unleashed. Bleed he wished to the ship, bleed and spill thine contents forth to the mercy of our fury. Bleed. For the True Gods!

**Ghalmek Orbital Forge-Dock- **_**Armorum Malefica: **_

**On the Bridge of the Battle-Barge **_**The Unyielding Darkness**_

"Lord Coryphaus…the enemy…they have broken through the cordon around the holy armoury; they advance toward the teleporter array. What are we to do?"

The fear in the captain's voice was shadowed by the actions of the heretics who crewed the ship, the mortals aboard the barge were the ant-crew which kept it running. Thousands had died in the enemy's devastating psychic assault, only a few thousand survived as a skeleton crew worked a dying ship to hold on…just a while longer. For what purpose they hardly cared or even knew.

"You all are a disgrace to the Gods! Failed me you all have! FAILED!" the giant form threatened as the Coryphaus reached for the heretic captain. "You are unworthy! Just like your mortal failures who you call a crew…Failures!"

Once again the Coryphaus howled in fury, lifting up his lightning claw he smashed the Heretic Captain to a bloody pulp on the grated ceramite floor of the bridge.

Turning toward his guards he growled a command, immediately and carefully not to tempt the Warlord's wrath the power armoured forms of a dozen guards slowly filed out of the bridge.

From the shadows came a squad of terminator armoured marines, his closest and most loyal Anointed. One of them with the horns and markings of a War-Captain stepped forward and in his hand he held a ornately and intricately patterned box which writhed and moved, pulsing with an unnatural power which emanated from within. Patterns of the daemon tongue inscribed changed voraciously and faces and figures of leering daemons and banished terrors tried to break free from the mould and prison of the box.

It was the Arcanatus, an ancient and powerful bound chest forged at the feet of Khorne himself which could hold the most powerful of daemons and the most terrifying of weapons and other warply items of unimaginable power in check, only a dozen or so where ever forged and the terminator held one of them with utter reverence.

But within it lay something so powerful that its malice leaked from the box and into the daemons holding it back, driving them into a frenzy. It was the Orb of Gelmash, the same which Lorgar had forged aeons ago with a secret purpose, the same which was lost, so many centuries ago. The same when the hated Ultramrine Primarch had ambushed them at the Arkavon system, the same. But not the whole piece, this none knew but the Gods and the Holder.

Coryphaus Moran Lakhos knew that this entire charade was for this powerful chaos artefact. He knew that the damned Disciples had found out about it, although it was stated as destroyed in most of their records. It wasn't so. Apparently the alien Tau had recovered it from the Arkavon system and was in possession of it when the Coryphaus' brilliant campaign of Krnoth took place. It was being prepared to be transported to some obscure research facility back in their home systems.

A massive Word Bearer attack followed by a substantial fleet engagement in their home systems door-step had utterly shocked the enemy by the reports of it, close to seventy thousand of the capricious Tau and their dirty xenos allies were slaughtered upon the field of Kaekwa and the Coryphaus had personally executed the commander and his puppeteer leader in single combat. Then the Apostle had ordered the erection of the Dark Temple as a shrine and monument defying the enemies of the Dark Gods and as a magnet for all the local human populace who immediately converged to its unstoppable call, the world was immersed in chaos and was forever doomed to the whim of the Gods.

But those were but days of glory, his glory, his master's glory…his Host's glory. Now all of it was for nought. Yet there was little honour left here. All he could do was salvage it from this terrible atrocity and sacrilege, escape with the artefact toward the Gauri system, now that there was a small shuttle prepped and ready in the forward dock-bay of the massive ship. Yes. That was it, he had to gather to him his most loyal servants and make for the Gauri system.

**Ghalmek Orbital Forge-Dock **_**Armorum Malefica: **_

**Aboard the Battle-Barge **_**The Unyielding Darkness**_

Stalking through the tangle of corridors and vast spills of random atriums which spread about the approach toward the bridge, Arkhor silently and fervently chanted hymns to the Dark Gods, only stopping to increase his volume when he met the enemy. Swiftly and mercilessly he saw off the squads of heretic mortal ship guards who desperately to hold back this one man juggernaut that had already destroyed half a battalion worth of warriors past the machine pit.

Then he faced squads of traitor Word Bearers who tried to ambush him at another larger Atrium from the closed in corridors on either side. They were the one's to feel the Disciple's true fury, left and right he swung with his Power-Fist, Rokal as arcane runes of chaos upon it pulsated with the amount of blood it was absorbing with each strike, his other hand held the immense and powerful Storm-Bolter named Death-Giver, which spat terrible volleys of daemon bound shells which never missed the mark.

Blooms of tiny explosions shattered through the power armour of the Marines as the Power-Fist was swung at them with a terrible curse from the owner, helms were split, horns splintered and jaws broken and one by one the enemy fell to the terrible force that was Arkhor. It was testament to all those who opposed the Dark Gods and the true master of the Legion, Lord Lorgar.

Arkhor surveyed the scene before him, all in all thirty Word Bearers, a strike force worth, lay broken and dead before him. He stood upon a pile of six Traitor Marine corpses as he holstered Death-Giver and with the crackling Rokal he hefted a half-dead crimson warrior from the pile, its torso coming loose from the tangle and it's left arm sheared at its elbow. The Astartes physiology still kept him alive, though broken in two

"Where is your traitor master?" he spoke in an almost fatherly voice, a subtle and manipulative voice which belied the fact that he had cause the carnage around them.

The Marine with all its effort nodded upwards, "Upper tier...Disciple. He is a liar! I see it now!"

"Really?" Arkhor asked amused at the prospect of dissent. "How so?"

It could also be in delirium setting in after the mutilation of the other half of the body.

"We never wanted to go against…your vision. Lord" the marine went into a fit and started coughing loud as blood spurted from the grilled snout that was the standard in the helm of most marines.

Arkhor chuckled, it was true then. At least that is what he gleaned from the dying thing. "I shall make a concession." He muttered, "You will die as a son of Lorgar!"

The wretch began coughing and wheezing, with that Arkhor simply threw him to the grated floor, "Try not to make a mess and die like a true son. Name of the Gods on your lips and the whatever else the Gods need." With a casual salute, Arkhor walked away from the bloodied atrium, the half-body of the Word Bearer lay bleeding as it slowly died name of the True Gods on his lips. A small chuckle emanated from the grill as he finally died. Arkhor simply smiled, died like a true son of Lorgar, he thought, just like everyone else.

Three Squads of First Acolytes joined Arkhor soon enough from a Engineering belt and was soon met with a handful of Acolytes who were setting charges to a sealed door, behind which lay the bridge. Arkhor was close to the Orb, he could sense its faint warp presence which it leaked through some form of containment, even from behind the reinforced bridge door. But that was it; there was no indication of it actually existing or being there, just a trace of the artefact.

Arkhor growled at the fact of him being cheated out of his prize,

"_Warp-Sight._" He whispered to his armour.

It obeyed as sheets of additional screens covered the visor and a sudden darkness followed. A burst of pinkish red burst onto the screen followed by a flurry view of all that transpired, all his marines were outlined by a strange bark aura which reached out for their surroundings. A particular glowing trail of purple appeared in a faint light which led away from the bridge. Arkhor growled. He was cheated out of his prize.

Sudden realization occurred to him, the bastard Coryphaus had ran of with the Orb, possibly to escape with it. No! He wouldn't let that happen!

Holstering Death-Giver he opened a compartment hidden within Rokal, a set of buttons and a small vid-screen popped up, he entered a few runes onto the screen and closed the screen.

"_Norm-Sight_" he whispered to his armour and the Daemon-Spirit obeyed. The red hued vision was replaced with the norm he was used to. A set of maps and unit disposition appeared within his visor and he carefully identified the path taken by the Coryphaus. He was heading toward a forward dock still held by the heretical Marines

Arkhor tapped on to his inter-vox, "Ghalam! Get to the forward docking bay. Now! I want that Coryphaus stopped, I will finish him myself."

An acknowledgement followed, with a din of gunfire. Arkhor turned and began sprinting after the trail.

**Ghalmek Orbital Forge-Dock- **_**Armorum Malefica: **_

**On the Bridge of the Battle-Barge **_**The Unyielding Darkness**_

He heard the screams of warrior-brothers dying outside the sealed vault door. The bridge was secure, for now, but soon the doors will fall against the relentless assault, too few Brothers remained to defend the bridge after all, rather any other vital part of the ship, he was gifted the only weapon that can definitely reap a terrible toll against the enemy, it was the giant Amadeus, a pious and loyal Obliterator who had not entirely given over to the daemon infested equipment which had warped and fused with his body.

He was a rarity within much of the legion, just like the few Dreadnoughts that remained, who hadn't entirely fallen to the whims of the madness that was within the warp. He was almost childlike to all those he looked up to, his lucidity had slipped so far and his mind so ironically obliterated by his form to become an Obliterator. That was the true essence of the Gods.

He had once a formidable weapon master who had reforged many a bolter and chainsword damaged in the False Emperor's Great Crusade eons past, he did so with such honour and zeal that there was a definite holy purpose set in his mind. Ever since the Heresy however he had begun to grow senile and purposeless, War-Captain Rathod had deemed him a waste and was in preparation to dispose of him, until the day of the Vision, whereupon the most sacred of the Daemons of the War God Khorne came to him in a dream. Metal grew within his skin and he turned into the terror he was now, a childlike and almost innocent terror.

"Afur, Thonas you have point with Amadeus. Jonar, Khaon and myself will man the heavy bolters." He eyed the men before him and estimated the points for the rest.

"V Coterie and VII Squad you have the left, rest of you to the right. In the Holy name of Lorgar!"

The men shouted their war cries and oaths in reply to the name of the holy lord of the Word Bearers Primarch.

He closed his eyes in prayer and silently mumbled the Citations of Erebus as the sounds of battle died down outside. He heard the shuffle of feet as the warriors given to him prepared for the inevitable onslaught of their former brothers, erstwhile brothers, or traitors as the Coryphaus claimed them to be. But as a warrior-brother of rank he knew much better of what this about.

Never should the Dark Apostle, the dead Dark Apostle, had shook his hand with the dog-sons of Alpharius, they were the scheming conniving kind who were unworthy of the attentions of the Dark Gods no matter what heinous crime they had committed in their holy names.

The First Acolyte, no matter what the other said, was right. As a warrior-brother of Lorgar's legion being wrong wasn't taken lightly. Either way the whelp was correct in his calculation that the host would be perversely and negatively affected with their association with the Alpha Legion.

He knew eventually they would be betrayed, either by the dissent within the host or the Alpha Legion itself, but this form of infighting and treachery which bought in the attention of their Primarch and the Legions own Disciples could only be one thing.

It the work of Alpharius himself, it reeked of the primarch's exploitation of certain characters within the Host and the greater part of the XVI Legion itself!

He silently cursed the name of the master of the Alpha Legion.

In a sudden thunderous boom the massive ceramite reinforced door to the bridge caved in, the hardened metals which composed its structure bending weakly against the sheer power of something terrible which continuously battered the door now. Screams and echoes of war cries tore into the helm receivers of the warrior-brothers left to fend the bridge by themselves. It came from beyond the door, a warrior-brother holding a daemon-fused auspex machine shuddered as he recognised the standard bleep of the ancient Astartes war machine.

"Dreadnought!" it was barely a whisper, but that was enough. The name itself even whispered was more effective psychologically than a warning yell.

It was common knowledge that being interred into one of those living coffins was a curse to any life valuing brothers. But once a victim is interred the loneliness and the melancholy bought on by one being trapped in a shell of ceramite half-dead is not soft on even Astartes conditioned minds, terrible visions from the warp twist the psyche in to that of a madman, nay a thousand madmen.

Siege ram attached dreadnoughts continually pounded the outer shell door down, only a reinforced main door remained, the warrior-brothers stood fast and cocked their bolters in unison, the Obliterator growled at the enemy beyond and flexed its weapon infested body. Random guns, cannons and chain weapons were peppered across his severely obese and metal infested body. Slowly the innocent minded beast hefted its right arm toward the door and began the rotary calibration of his arm's muscle infused assault cannon.

It was going to be a blood-bath, this they all knew.


End file.
